


For Science

by Linsky



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2010-2011 Season, First Time, M/M, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 11:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky
Summary: “No, Patrick, I willnotlet you measure my fingers,” Jonny says.





	For Science

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have some kind of sickness where I write 1988 ficlets instead of doing the many other things I should be doing with my life. I can't help it. They're just too fun to write.
> 
>  _Cosmo_ is unfairly maligned in this fic. The study was actually from an article in _The Sun_ that Holly sent me, so really, this is the fault of Holly and the British media. :D
> 
> I am on the [tumbles](https://linskywords.tumblr.com/)!

Patrick Kane is used to haters. He’s the shortest guy on an NHL team, a Calder winner, and a fucking Stanley Cup champion: the haters can suck it. But, like, some things are sacred.

“It’s a totally reputable magazine,” he says to Bicks, who’s giving him the side-eye. “A lot of people think it’s dumb, but—”

“That’s because we’re not teenage girls,” Sharpy calls across the locker room.

“Hey, I’m a motherfucking Stanley Cup champion, thank you,” Patrick says. It’s important to give them reminders sometimes.

“So am I,” Seabs says, “and you don’t see me reading _Cosmo._ ”

“You’re probably just not secure enough in your masculinity,” Patrick says. He has sisters; he knows this shit. “Come on,” he says to Bicks, “just let me try it.”

“No fucking way,” Bicks says.

“What, afraid of what I’ll find?” Patrick says.

“Come off it,” Seabs says. “You know this is bullshit. No way is that a real—”

“It’s a _scientific study,_ ” Patrick says. Philistines.

“Carried out by, what, the middle-schoolers of America?” Soupy asks.

“You’re all just afraid I’ll find out you’re gay,” Patrick says, and everyone laughs at him. Because they are morons who don’t understand the _scientific method._

“No, you know what, bring it here,” Sharpy says. Then, when everyone looks at him in surprise, “What? I’m gonna let Peeks use me as a test case. He knows I’m not gay.” Sharpy’s smile slides toward a leer. “Enough guys have hit on me over the years that there’s no way I wouldn’t have taken one of them up on it.”

Everyone rolls their eyes, but Patrick just takes his stick tape over. Sharpy submits patiently while Patrick measures him, until: “Same length,” Patrick says. “Congratulations, you are officially straight.”

Sharpy waggles his index and ring fingers in the air, grinning triumphantly. “Lots of testosterone in the womb for me, baby.”

“Breaking the hearts of the men of Chicago,” Bolly says, sighing in mock regret.

Hammer makes a face at him when Patrick turns to him with the tape, and Duncs only looks up from his stick long enough to look away again disdainfully. Seabs looks long-suffering but puts out his hand. Patrick measures his ring finger and index finger carefully, making sure the tape starts at the same spot on his knuckles. “You’re good,” he says.

“Thank goodness,” Seabs says. “I’d hate to have to break the news to Dayna.”

Bicks does let Patrick measure him then, and Soupy; their fingers are more or less equal, no big differences Patrick can find. Then he turns to Jonny, who’s been quietly sorting his gear this whole time.

Jonny looks up with his glariest glare on. “Not in a million billion fucking years,” he says flatly, and Patrick grins and takes a step forward.

***

“Come on, the other guys let me do it,” Patrick says later, when practice is over and Jonny doesn’t have any excuse to put him off anymore.

“The other guys can be morons if they want to,” Jonny says.

“We even know it works now,” Patrick says. “None of those guys were gay, so—”

“Oh my god, they really don’t teach you anything in American schools, do they?” Jonny says. “That is not how proving stuff works!”

“So let me measure your fingers,” Patrick says swiftly. “We can prove it more.”

Jonny just rolls his eyes and finishes gathering his practice stuff. “I’m going home,” he announces. “You’re too annoying to hang out with today.”

“You watch yourself, Jonathan, I’m gonna get you later!” Patrick shouts after him as he leaves.

Jonny flips him off. It’s the middle finger, which is no help at all.

***

Patrick doesn’t give up on stuff. That’s how he got into the NHL: not giving up for a single moment, no matter how many people told him he was good _but,_ promising _but_. He’s not going to give up on this either.

“It only takes like two seconds,” he says to Jonny when they’re out to lunch the next day.

“Um, yeah, it’s not about the time,” Jonny says. “It’s about this being the most idiotic theory I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ve got sources,” Patrick says. He’s been carrying the _Cosmo_ around, in case he has the chance to argue with Jonny. He tries not to carry that kind of thing around in public too much, because the media gives him shit about it, but hey, he has nothing to be ashamed of. “Look, it’s a real study, Jonathan, printed in a journal and everything—”

“I hate when you call me Jonathan,” Jonny says. “It always means you’re being stupider than usual.”

Patrick puts down the magazine and reaches across the table for Jonny’s hand. “Come on, just—”

Jonny leans back in his chair, holding his salad out of reach. “How about you just eat?”

Patrick picks up his fork a gain, but he’s not giving up. He’s just biding his time.

***

“Oh my god,” Jonny says the next day on the plane to Detroit. “Can’t you bother someone else?”

“They all let me measure their hands already,” Patrick says.

“So measure your own,” Jonny says.

“Um, my hands are perfect, obviously,” Patrick says. It’s almost true.

“Well, I don’t have any hands,” Jonny says, tucking them under his thighs. “So I guess there’s nothing for you to measure.”

Patrick looks him up and down. “Wow. That’s really gonna do a number on your hockey career.”

“I know, right?” Jonny says. “Cut down in my prime.”

“Tragic,” Patrick says, deciding against the wrestling match that would result if he tried to pry Jonny’s hands out from under his thighs. Last time he kicked the back of Duncs’ seat and got yelled at for five minutes.

He leans back in his seat instead. He was lying about having measured everyone else already, but he doesn’t really want to move. Too much trouble.

“You want to watch some tape?” Jonny asks.

“Sure,” Patrick says, and then rolls his eyes and digs through Jonny’s bag because Jonny refuses to take his hands out from under his thighs long enough to find his iPad.

***

After that Patrick decides it’s time for the stealth method. What Jonny doesn’t know he’s measuring won’t hurt him.

“Are you trying to hold my hand?” Jonny asks when they’re on Patrick’s couch, watching the Kings play the Sharks a couple of days later.

“No,” Patrick says. He wasn’t. He just isn’t that good at eyeballing, and Jonny’s fingers are spread out, so—

“Oh my god,” Jonny says. “Stop trying to measure my hands!”

“I wasn’t!” Patrick says, but Jonny gets him around the wrists anyway and holds his hands by his sides.

Jonny won’t let go for the rest of the episode of _Desperate Housewives_ , but it’s not like it’s uncomfortable or anything. After a minute or two Patrick leans against Jonny’s shoulder and stops struggling. He’ll be sneakier next time.

***

The problem is that Jonny’s surprisingly perceptive. Not about a lot of stuff, obviously, but he always seems to notice when Patrick’s sneaking up on him.

“Give it a fucking rest,” he says when Patrick’s just snuck up behind him during team dinner in Tampa, trying to measure Jonny’s fingers while he’s distracted talking to Sharpy. It’s his annoyed tone, but not his _super_ annoyed tone, so Patrick figures he still has some latitude here.

“Still won’t give it up for you, huh?” Sharpy asks Patrick.

“It’s like he has something to hide,” Patrick complains, and Jonny cuffs him around the head.

If Patrick can’t sneak up on Jonny, there’s only one thing he can do: measure Jonny while he’s asleep.

That would be easier if Patrick didn’t tend to be asleep at the same times as Jonny. He decides to do it that night, and makes himself stay awake past when Jonny’s breathing has evened out on the other side of the room. It’s tough: he had a goal and two assists against Tampa tonight, and he’s so tired he feels like his eyelids have little hooks in them, pulling them down. But he pinches his leg every time he starts to drift off until finally he’s sure Jonny’s really out.

Turns out Jonny sleeps with his hands under the covers. Fucker. Patrick eases the covers away carefully, so that Jonny doesn’t wake up.

His hands are folded up on his chest. Of course they are.

Probably Patrick should just give this up till another time when he finds Jonny in a better position. But he doesn’t have the softest hands on the team for nothing. He blows on his own fingers so they won’t be cold and then starts unfolding Jonny’s. He eases the index finger of his left hand out and is working on the next finger when Jonny stirs.

“Wha,” Jonny mumbles, and before Patrick can move away, Jonny’s clasping his hand around Patrick’s and pulling him down to the bed.

Patrick goes, startled; he kind of falls against Jonny’s side and makes a last-minute move to avoid getting tangled up in the covers. Of course, that means he ends up lying under the covers, flush against Jonny’s side. With his hand in Jonny’s.

Jonny starts his little whuffling snore again.

What the fuck. How did he even…this was _not_ what Patrick was trying to make happen here. But Jonny’s hand is warm around his, and Jonny’s side is surprisingly comfortable to lean against, and his eyelids are still doing the drooping thing, and…

Okay. Maybe Patrick can let his eyes close. Just a little. He’ll check on Jonny’s hands in the morning.

***

Patrick wakes up warm and cozy in a bed with only him in it.

The sheets are warm next to him, like Jonny just slid out of them, and the shower is running. “Fucker,” Patrick says aloud. That was all _way_ too smooth.

“Maybe you should let it go,” Seabs says to Patrick later that day on the bus to the airport.

“Huh?” Patrick’s looking at Jonny across the bus, where he’s sitting with Duncs because he is a stubborn maniac who thinks he can deter Patrick from his hand-measuring mission just by changing their seating arrangements. “I can’t let him _win_ ,” Patrick says.

“Right, of course not,” Seabs says dryly.

He obviously underestimates Patrick’s ingenuity. Patrick’s only getting started.

“Hey, those are really nice gloves,” Sharpy says to Jonny in Pittsburgh later that day. “Are they leather?”

“What? Oh, no, they’re this new microfiber,” Jonny says, and then starts explaining how it wicks away the sweat and is better for the environment than leather and all that Jonny shit. Sharpy nods and makes interested noises and gets as far as putting his hands on Jonny’s before Jonny stiffens and pulls away. “Hang on,” Jonny says. “You’re never interested in this stuff.”

“No, of course I am,” Sharpy says, making a valiant effort to keep a straight face before cracking and making eye contact with Patrick over Jonny’s shoulder. “Sorry, Peeks. I tried.”

“Fuck you, you’re bad at this,” Patrick says.

“Maybe I’m just not as motivated as you,” Sharpy says, as Jonny stalks away.

Patrick tries again that night, sitting next to Jonny at dinner and leaning in to show him something on his phone. Jonny’s hands stay curled: around silverware, around each other. Nowhere Patrick can get a grip on them.

***

“Don’t even think about it,” Jonny says when Patrick edges closer to him in the showers the next day.

Patrick sidles back. He hadn’t quite thought that one through, anyway.

***

Jonny cracks the next day.

“Hey, can you fix my tie?” Patrick asks when they’re getting dressed for their game against Philly. “It’s not lying right.”

Jonny rolls his eyes but comes to stand in front of Patrick. “I told you, no one does a full Windsor.”

“Gotta follow my style,” Patrick says, sticking his tongue out.

“That is unfortunately true,” Jonny grumbles, hands going to Patrick’s collar, and Patrick would snap back but he’s more interested in sneaking his hands up to wrap around Jonny’s wrists. “What the—”

“Ha,” Patrick says, wrestling Jonny’s hands up where he can see them, working to keep Jonny from breaking his grip—

“Okay, fucker, you’re asking for it,” Jonny says, and launches himself at Patrick and knocks him back onto the bed. Patrick’s in his shirt and slacks already and tries to escape, but Jonny is fucking heavy and seems to have, like, five times as many limbs as usual.

“Ow!” Patrick says as Jonny’s knees dig into his thighs. “You’re gonna wreck my suit, you jerkwad—”

“What, can’t take what you’re dishing out?” Jonny asks. There’s a manic gleam in his eyes. He’s twisting to get Patrick’s hand under his own. “Let’s see what _your_ fingers look like.”

Patrick curls his hand up defensively, but Jonny’s got, like, magical finger strength or something, and he presses Patrick’s hand flat so that Patrick can’t even throw an elbow. Patrick jerks to the side to try to throw Jonny off instead, but all that does is make Jonny slide flat, so that his monster thighs are pressing down on Patrick’s instead of his knees digging in. They’re both breathing hard now, chests pressed up against each other, and Jonny’s hand is pressing Patrick’s flat against the bed.

“I don’t know,” Jonny says, looking down at him with dark-eyed intensity. His face is really close. “Your fingers look pretty uneven to me.”

Patrick’s panting under him. He makes a final attempt to buck Jonny off, but it only brings their hips into alignment. Patrick lets out an involuntary moan, and then—and then Jonny’s mouth is on his.

There’s a moment where Patrick can’t breathe, and then a moment where it flips over and he doesn’t even want to: where all his blood is smoldering with fire and he doesn’t care about anything except Jonny’s mouth. Then he pulls back and gets a great gulp of oxygen, and the fire roars through his whole body, and he and Jonny are rolling across the bed, tearing at each other’s suits until finally Jonny gets his hand around both their cocks.

“Fucking—can’t just—” Jonny says, laboring over him, his other hand still pinning Patrick’s wrist to the bed. “Can’t just let it go—”

Patrick’s never wanted to let anything go less than he does at that moment. He gets his free hand onto Jonny’s ass and squeezes, hitching his own hips up into a filthy grind, and then everything gets blurry and white-hot and he throws his head back and comes all over Jonny’s second-best white shirt.

They lie together limp and sweaty afterward, putting off the moment when they have to get up and separate and shower and get dressed again. Patrick takes Jonny’s hand in his and traces slowly over the fingers. “Your index and ring fingers are the same length,” he says, running his thumb up and down them.

“I know,” Jonny mumbles into his hair. “I told you your study was dumb.”

Patrick presses a kiss to the tips of his fingers and then sucks them into his mouth.

***

“Hey, Kaner!” Bicks says a few weeks later. They’re on the plane, Patrick sitting next to Jonny. “There’s this new study that just came out. Apparently gay guys are more likely to have hair that swirls counterclockwise, or some shit like that?”

Patrick’s spent the last twenty minutes trying not to shiver visibly as Jonny traces his fingers along the outer seam of his pants. He can’t see Jonny’s scalp at the moment, but—“Yeah, no,” he says. “Sounds like crap to me.”


End file.
